


On Little Cat Feet

by AssortedGeekery



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII: Advent Children
Genre: Blood, Comfort Food, Gen, Hunters & Hunting, Major Character Injury, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 07:17:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4470224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AssortedGeekery/pseuds/AssortedGeekery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5 times Cid didn't hear Vincent coming, and 1 time he did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Little Cat Feet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [otterspots](https://archiveofourown.org/users/otterspots/gifts).



> Written to fulfill otterspots' request: Vincent is a pretty quiet guy. He's quiet when he walks, quiet when he talks, quiet when he moves. As such, he tends to startle people without meaning to, and by people, I mean Cid. Cid is sick and tired of getting the shit scared out of him, and decides to return the favor. Or at least he tries to.
> 
> I'm not entirely sure how this became about food as well, but there you go.

Vincent was quiet by nature, silent by training and apparently incapable of making the kinds of casual, background sounds everyone else in their party did. Cloud mumbled to himself, sometimes, and his sword harness made soft creaking sounds. Barrett’s arm whirred and clicked softly, a comforting sound of well-cared for machinery. Tifa’s hair swung and brushed gently against things with a soft, whispery sort of sound. The Materia in Red XIII’s fur clicked when he moved, even sometimes chiming when they struck each other just right. Cid knew he made plenty of noise, and even Cait wasn’t silent.

But _Vincent_ …

Even in his sabatons, he walked silently. Twigs didn’t dare snap under him. Nothing ever snagged his cloak. His buckles refused to jingle. His leathers didn’t creak. He could even cock his damn hand cannon silently, though the reload made a little sound.

On a quiet night somewhere in the middle of a forest- at that point, Cid didn’t know or care where they were. He was just glad the branches overhead provided some dimming of the overly bright stars and just-passing-full moon, so it was easier to sleep. Their party was scattered around in tents, the fire smoldering softly in the shadows. Cid stayed awake, smoking and sitting his watch without complaint.

A heap of bloody fur dropped at Cid’s side.

“HOLYFUCKINGGODSOF….. _Vincent_?”

Red eyes blinked slowly at him in the dark. “Yes?”

“Where the _hell_ did you come from?”

Vincent shrugged, pointing east, deeper into the forest.

“And the _bodies_?”

Vincent lifted the heap, spreading it out with his free hand to reveal three brace of rabbits.

By this time, half the camp was attempting to get up and battle ready after a long day. Cid hissed and flapped his hands at them, scowling at Vincent.

“You thought it was wise to _drop a bunch of dead rabbits in my lap_?”

“You had canned beans and tinned meat for supper,” Vincent said mildly. “Yesterday and the day before as well. And instant cereal for breakfast all this week.”

Cid scrubbed a hand over his face. “And you just…. _happened_ to come across all these?”

Vincent shook his head. “I dug out the warren,” he explained.

“You dug out…. _gods_ , Valentine. Why’d you drop them on me?”

“If I had hung them from a tree it might have attracted predators.”

“My _lap_.”

“I assumed you knew I was there,” Vincent murmured, offering the rabbits. “I’ve gutted them already.”

Cid sighed heavily and heaved himself off the log he’d staked out as a good watch spot. “We oughtta put a bell on you,” he muttered, taking the rabbits. “I’m gonna have to start work on these now…”

“I saved the livers,” Vincent offered.

“You….you saved…. _why_?”

“They are nutritious.”

Cid shook his head. “I’ll keep ‘em for Red. Just…. _warn a guy_ next time.”

* * *

 

There was a lot of rain in the days after Cloud’s ridiculously over the top battle in the ruins of Midgar. Cid spent a great deal of his time out in it, offering his services as an engineer and doing a lot of risk assessment. Plenty of the ruins had gone from eyesore to hazard during the battle and there was a lot of work to be done. Cid covered while Reeve gathered a relief force.

Consequently he spent a lot of time in the rain, getting cold and wet and heading to shelter just long enough to slam a few mugs of tea, have a smoke, stuff a sandwich in his face and head back out. Sleep came in naps wherever he could fit.

By the end of two weeks, Tifa and Reeve teamed up (and what an unholy combination that was, even temporarily) to force Cid into one of the furnished shipping containers Reeve had arrived with, stacks and stacks of the odd little living units loaded on massive hauling trucks. Cid ached to climb all over the haulers and take in the beauty of their construction, but Reeve posted an armed guard on his door, the bastard, and Cid was confined to two connected shipping units to sniffle and cough in isolation.

The containers were nice, if a little spartan. The bed was comfortable, the couch even moreso, and Reeve had tracked down a battered but serviceable drafting table so Cid was slightly less inclined to charge the guard at his door.

 _Slightly_.

Three days in, when Cid was getting ready to try holding his guard hostage to get some entertainment, he woke from a nap to find unblinking red eyes peering down at him.

By the time Cid had finished swearing, Vincent was in the far corner of the bedroom container. Cid was on top of the table in the other unit, brandishing a three-foot wrench in one hand and a T-square in the other.

“What the _ACTUAL FUCK_ , VALENTINE?”

Vincent appeared in the doorway. “Reeve let me pass.”

“I can _see_ that. Why are you here?”

“Tifa seemed adamant that someone needed to be.”

“ _Tifa_ can just….how did you even get in here?”

“Through the door.”

Cid looked at the door. It was heavy, made of solid metal, and it made a sort of whining noise when it was opened and closed. “ _Really_.”

“Yes. Your guard let me in.” Vincent moved into the kitchen area. “He was surprised to see you had visitors.”

“I haven’t been allowed any,” Cid muttered, climbing off the table. “What’s that?”

Vincent put a plastic bag down on the table and began unpacking it, laying containers out in neat ranks. “Hot and sour soup,” he murmured. “Beef and broccoli. Fried rice. Dry fried green beans. Red bean dumplings. Steamed pork dumplings. Jasmine tea.”

“….dinner?”

“And more. Something warming and familiar, I thought.”

“How is Wutai takeout familiar?”

Vincent raised an eyebrow at him. “I have seen both the cookbooks and the takeout containers that surround you at home.”

Cid went rather pink. “When were you at my place?”

Vincent adopted an expression of innocence and pushed the soup at Cid. “Eat. This one doesn’t reheat well.”

* * *

 

When emergency cleanup was over, Cid returned to Rocket Town and resumed work on his own projects. He also set to work on requests for designs from Reeve, who was an architectural and planning genius but couldn’t build heavy machinery to save his life. Robotics, sure, but a functioning airship? Not a chance.

He ferried mockups, models and plans back and forth for months, even seeing a rotating cast of Turks as Rufus started on his own sheepish restoration projects and sought out the rare professionals willing to deal with him.

Winter rolled in, blanketing the area in feet of snow and taking up a great deal of Cid’s time with the shoveling that nearly turned to tunneling in some areas. It slowed the trips but gave him more time to chew on the details of his projects, the deep drilling units and water purification plants, the solar arrays he needed an expert to go over, plans for what amounted to soil scrubbing…his bookshelves had to be replaced with sturdier metal versions to support the weight of the books on plants, water and geology he required for his work. Outside, some of his snow piles (more like snow battlements by the time January came around) turned into sculptures.

And if there was a little rum in his hot cocoa and the marshmallows on top were fancy flavors…who was going to tell him off for it?

After a blizzard near the end of January, Cid marched outside to do battle with the invading forces of encroaching snowdrifts, armed with assorted shovels and picks. He headed back to the hangar around noon, so focused on day dreams of grilled cheese sandwiches that he failed to notice he had company until a long-fingered hand reached around to open the door while he fumbled his mittens off to get to the glove liners with grippy pads underneath.

Cid attempted to brain the invader with his snow shovel.

The invader put Cid headfirst into the closest snowdrift.

“ _VALENTINE!_ ” Cid howled when he struggled free, spitting snow and trying to dig it out of his collar.

“Afternoon, Cid.”

“ _Normal_ people _announce their presence_ ,” he informed Vincent, stamping inside and beginning to shed his snow gear in an awkward dance prompted by rapidly melting snow in sensitive places.

“I did.”

“You opened the door over my shoulder without saying anything, that is not _announcing_ shit and you know it.”

Vincent shrugged, slipping his mantle off and hanging it on the coat rack. While Cid stripped, Vincent also hung the blond’s things, delicately shaking slush from them as he went.

Cid let him do it, hopping across the minefield of icy little puddles to get to warmer, drier ground. “What are you doing up here, anyway? Kind of out of the way for a casual visit.”

“Nowhere is too far for a casual visit,” Vincent informed him, making his way towards Cid with all the grace Cid hadn’t had while avoiding the puddles. “Were you going to make sandwiches? You were singing the sandwich song earlier.”

Cid scowled at him. “I was not.”

“You were.”

“There _is_ no sandwich song.”

“You specified grilled cheese and sourdough.”

“ _Fuck_ , Vincent, if you want to be fed, just _say_ so!”

* * *

 

Cid spent a great deal of his spring and summer traveling, overseeing the beginning work on a dozen projects the WRO and Shinra were bankrolling. He was most proud of the hydroelectric facility going in on the Junon coast, harnessing the force of the massive tides in the area to make power that would one day run most of the city.

He stopped in to see friends as well, even picking Cloud up after a flat tire stranded him on a long-haul delivery. Tifa and the kids were aways happy to see him. Barrett less so, but that was only because Cid’s work was largely focused on making the brief boom in fossil fuel consumption slide back down to where it had been before Meteor and Barret was a little sore about it.

When autumn came, Cid prepared for another winter of drafting and shoveling, stockpiling supplies and building a small woodshed to house fuel for the antique wood stove he hadn’t been able to leave in an Icicle Inn scrapyard. He also did a little hunting, bagging boomers, doves and rabbits whenever he had the time to head out into the wilds.

He let himself back into the workshop side of the hangar one such evening with five boomers strung up over his shoulder and a pair of rabbits in his hand to find blood all over his floor. A lot of blood.

Cid quietly placed his catch on the bench beside the door, took his boots off with as little noise as possible and padded further into the darkened space. Without the lights on, he nearly collided with the thing hanging from the ceiling. Then, furious instead of worried, he turned around, fetched his birds and bunnies, and marched into the living side of the hangar.

“You hung a _moose_ from my ceiling!” he complained, moving the birds to the makeshift butchers block he’d set up. “A goddamned _moose_ , Vincent. Who the fuck just wanders by with a _whole moose_?”

He got no reply. Muttering under his breath about vampires and Turks and moose, Cid began digging his knives out. It was best to take care of the animals as he got them. Except for the moose, of course, but he hadn’t been planning on a moose in the first place. That could hang a few days while he figured out how he was going to get most of a moose into his freezer. Might need to buy a second…..and a third, possibly.

“Why’d you bring _me_ a moose anyway?” he continued. “I live alone. Shoulda taken it to Tifa or something’…she’s got kids…Vince? Are you even here?”

He looked up for the first time.

Vincent perched on one of Cid’s bar stools, which he had moved to an open bit of floor that had no rug on it. This was necessary, as a small pool of blood had collected under the stool. Vincent’s blood, as evidenced by the long set of slashes that had shredded his sleeve and part of the arm beneath it.

“Evening, Cid,” he rasped.

“VINCENT GODDAMN FUCKING VALENTINE YOU COMPLETE AND TOTAL TWIT!” Cid roared. “WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?”

“Bear.”

“A _bear_.”

“It wanted the moose.”

“And you didn’t _let it have the moose_?”

“It was _my_ moose.”

Cid groaned, putting the knives down and beginning to run hot water in the sink. “Your moose, Vincent? Really?”

“ _I_ shot it.”

“Yes, and I have no doubt that you could have shot another one if you’d wanted to.” Cid bent to heave the smaller of his first aid kits, a case the size of a respectably large tackle box with nearly as many compartments, onto the counter.

“ _My moose_.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“I brought it for you.”

“Yes, I saw. You left a dead animal the size of a small train hanging from my ceiling in the dark, Vincent. With a blood trail. I almost pissed myself.”

Vincent closed his eyes.

“I swear, I need to put a bell on you,” Cid muttered, heading for Vincent and snapping lights on as he went. “C’mon, gonna clean you up.”

Vincent blinked blearily. “A bell?”

“Yes, a bell. I was thinking a bell like for a cat or something, but now I think you need a bear bell instead.” Cid sighed, coaxing Vincent off the stool and beginning to move man and furniture towards the kitchen. “So I know where you are and the bears do too. You snuck up on it, didn’t you?”

“That implies it was deliberate.”

“That’s a yes, then. Idiot.”

* * *

 

Cid lived on wild birds and moose burgers that winter, and fed a lot of the same to anyone who managed to make it out his way in the snow. The rabbits were not shared, never mind that he had plenty in the freezer. Most people were against eating cuddly animals for dinner and the rest…well, frying rabbit for company was time consuming. He strung bells on fishing line wherever he thought the wild and elusive Valentine might make an appearance. Every now and then, Vincent would get around them and then stand there, delicately plucking at the line with his fingers, until Cid came out to fuss at him.

Spring rolled around and Cid took to the air, checking on projects in milder climates where work had progressed while he hibernated in his northern hangar.

On one such trip, somewhere over the water outside Junon, warning sirens went off, all sensors indicating that the hatch to the secondary cargo compartment was wide open for no reason at all.

Halfway to the compartment, Cid began hearing a musical racket of chiming and jingling. Not entirely sure what awaited him but sure it wasn’t going to be funny, he stuck his fingers in his ears and forged onwards.

Vincent sat on the compartment gangway, legs hanging off into the void, with at least two strings of Cid’s hangar bells wrapped around one hand and arm. A few more were draped around his neck. He shook the ones on his hand until Cid swatted his shoulder.

“Are you _trying_ to give me a heart attack?” he demanded. “Get your feet inside, I’m closing this door. How the fuck did you even _get_ up here?”

“Wisped,” Vincent said simply, drawing his feet up onto the gangway. He made no effort to stand, so Cid went and keyed the closing sequence, hoping Vincent would get tipped backwards into the compartment with it. No such luck: the man slid backwards a moment, then stood easily and stepped back to join Cid, jingling all the way.

“All the way up here?” Cid had seen Vincent do his wisping thing, turning to a wraith-like streak of crimson that hopped from surface to surface in blatant defiance of gravity and physics. He had not, however, seen Vincent do anything he would consider actual flight while in his wisp form. “Didn’t know you could do that.”

“I’m learning,” Vincent said lightly, giving his hand another shake. The racket of the bells made Cid grit his teeth.

“ _Why_ do you have my bells on?”

“You said you wanted me to have a bell.”

“A _bear bell_.”

“But before that, you had wanted me to have a bell so you knew when I was around.”

“It defeats the purpose when you’ve already gotten into my bubble before you bother to make noise, Vincent.”

Vincent raised an eyebrow as Cid began unwrapping the strings of bells. “You have a bubble?”

“I _do_ when I’m _thousands of feet above the ground_.”

“But not at any other time.”

“Funny…no one _else_ seems to think you’re a smartass,” Cid muttered.

“No one else needs to,” Vincent said mildly, lifting his arm for Cid.

“Quit _moving_ , you sound like wind chimes in a tornado.”

“…And you know this because…”

“Because I’ve heard it, now _stop moving_.”

“Coming from Costa del Sol?” Vincent asked, obediently stilling his arm. He took a deep enough breath to make the bells hanging down his chest tinkle and the muscles of Cid’s jaw twitch.

“ _Yes_ , don’t do that.”

“Supply run?”

“Does it matter?”

“You bought cajeta.”

Cid paused in his untangling, a strong of bells hanging looped from one hand.

“You sneaky bastard, you tracked me down _up here_ for a jar of _goat caramel_?”

* * *

That summer, Cid tracked down some fashion-grade leather and the right tools and made Vincent a collar. It was black, with wide red stitches in the same shade as his mantle, which Cid maintained was too hot to wear in summer and just looking at it made him hot. He didn’t feel like learning to make and tune a proper bell, so he had one made, a gleaming silver globe the size of a clementine that had a lower tone, something Cid liked the sound of. It matched the buckle and D-ring he made to suit. For comfort, he lined the collar with lambskin. For fun, he made matching cuffs for ankles and wrists, because Vincent’s reach was too long for his own good, his stride was a thing of legend and he was perfectly capable of keeping his neck and shoulders still enough to quiet a single bell. But five bells? Maybe Cid had half a chance.

In September, Cid was hit by a truck in broad daylight while wearing full safety gear in the requisite neon shades of yellow and orange. Because he was Cid and working around Turks, he also had a reinforced hard hat and a bullet-proof vest on, thereby protecting him from the worst of the damage when he landed in a scrap heap and reducing most of his injuries to breaks, fractures, severe bruising and some minor internal bleeding. He did take a piece of rebar through the calf, though, and the number of nails doctors had to remove from his legs and arms was in the double digits. Breaks were easy to fix, but multiple infections sites were less so.

Unfortunately for the hospital staff, the assorted injuries and indignities did nothing to impede Cid’s natural ability to swear at length. In fact, they enhanced it and added flavor to the particular curses and invocations he selected for special occasions. (Special occasions including cream of wheat breakfasts, sponge baths of doom, the unfortunate teenager who delivered assorted gifts and well wishes from far too many admirers, Mondays and Cloud’s visits.)

Two weeks in to Cid’s stay he had been reduced to regularly accosting his caretakers for a cigarette, a cup of strong black tea or some real meat. Any of these things would do.

Late in the afternoon, when the light coming through his large windows- there was something to be said for being on good terms with Rufus Shinra, and it had a lot to do with excellent treatment in hospitals- was turning red and orange from the dust and smog still slowly settling from the years of pollution, Cid was shaken from a doze by the sound of jingle bells.

“‘M I hallucinating?” he mumbled, not opening his eyes.

“Why would you be?”

“Because I think I’m hearing you entering my bubble, Valentine, and that never happens.”

“I thought you didn’t have a bubble while ground-bound.”

Cid opened one eye, finding Vincent at the end of his bed with the collar and cuffs Cid hadn’t had the chance to gift yet fastened snugly around his neck and wrists. “I don’t have a bubble when I can easily defend myself.”

“ _Ah_. I see. That explains a few things.”

“Where did you get those?”

“These?” Vincent raised a hand and gave it a shake, making the bell chime sweetly. “They were in your vehicle.”

“And you were in my truck because… _why_?”

“The workers at the site were afraid to touch it and someone had to move it out of the way. These were in a box under the passenger seat with my name scrawled on the tape holding it closed.”

“Meant t’ give ‘em to you…hadn’t seen you in a bit…”

“I’ve been up North.” Vincent moved around the bed, pushing the wheelie table over. “I arrived the same day you had your accident.”

“I didn’t have _shit_ , Vincent. I couldn’t’a been more obvious if I’d been wearing a light-up thong and a tutu.”

“Well then, I arrived the same day you learned what it feels like to be a bug on a windshield.”

“Are you here for a reason?”

Vincent lifted a small cooler onto the end of the bed and began unpacking it onto Cid’s table. A thermos, two cups, a covered bowl and a shaker of sugar all appeared, along with two spoons and a fork. Cid raised an eyebrow.

“Am I going to get in trouble if they catch me with this?”

“Undoubtedly,” Vincent chuckled, opening the thermos and pouring two cups of steaming black tea. “As I doubt your doctor has told the support staff about my clearance yet.”

Cid made a startled sound. “The doctor _knows_?”

“I pointed out that you might go a little easier on his staff if some of your needs were met.” He shook sugar into the tea and handed Cid a cup and spoon. “Here. Don’t drink it all at once, I will not be responsible for the burns.”

Cid gave it a cursory stir, then leaned over the cup, taking a deep breath of the steam. “ _Gods_ , that smells good.”

“It should; I got the tea from your quarters.”

“I can never decide if Turks become felons or if the Turks just recruit felons to save time,” Cid murmured, sipping carefully at the tea. He made a happy sound and relaxed.

“What makes you think it’s one or the other?” Vincent asked, removing the lid from the bowl and stirring the contents with a fork. A richly savory smell rose from it.

“What’s _that_?” Cid breathed, leaning towards it at once.

“Stroganoff. With ground lamb and bacon.”

“You brought me _bacon_?”

“I prefer it with chopped meat, but the doctor insisted that ground meat would be easier on your system. Bacon, however, is of a texture he approved of.” Vincent pushed the bowl towards Cid. “This was sampled and approved by a medical professional…and the other bowl was accepted as a bribe.”

“You _bribed_ my doctor.”

“I did.”

“While wearing a _kitty bell_.”

“Who says I had it on when I spoke with him?”

“You’re not denying it, Vince.”

“Mmm….eat your dinner, Cid.”

“I heard you jingling in the hallway, Vincent. I know you had them on out there.”

“And?”

“And you aren’t the type to do a quick costume change in a hospital bathroom.”

Vincent shrugged and picked up his tea. “If you say so.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I grew up with a fear of SPAM and all other canned meats except tuna. I enjoy eating rabbit, though I don't get it very often. 
> 
> 2\. I'm a firm believer in good, hot, healthy-ish food when sick (so long as I don't have a stomach thing) instead of the boring, bland, depressing diet so many people seem to default to. Spice is a requirement. I like chile when I have a cold. 
> 
> 3\. Grilled cheese on homemade sourdough bread is a religious experience. 
> 
> 4\. Boomers are prairie chickens, a type of large grouse. While I didn't grow up eating them, I did have a lot of spruce grouse when I was a kid. More rabbit here, of course, and a moose. Moose is good, but one large moose will feed a family of four for months. I'mnot talking about the dinky moose in most of the contiguous United States either, Vincent hauled a full-size cow Alces alces gigas (giant or Alaskan moose) in for Cid's eating pleasure.
> 
> 5\. Cajeta is sometimes called Mexican caramel sauce, but it's essentially a thick caramel usually made from goat's milk. I get mine from Just Kidding Goat Ranch. It's rich, creamy, incredibly delicious and should be a form of currency. 
> 
> 6\. My mother makes this type of stroganoff at my request. It's like any other, except for the inclusion of the bacon, but it tastes and smells so much better in every possible way. It's thick, hot, and incredibly comforting served over your favorite shape of egg noodle.


End file.
